How to Live a Life
by TheSarcasticDeath
Summary: Ivan was in a new country, with a new life. But something was missing. But something was wrong. And he couldn't find what it was. This is a Trans!Rus story going through the realization process, to the surgery, and after. Human AU.


**First and foremost, I don't own Hetalia.**

**Now that that's out of the way, I am not transgender/transsexual. I can only imagine what it's like. But I hope that this rendition helps someone somehow get through it, should they need the help.**

_**How to Live a Life**_

Ivan wasn't sure what he was hoping for as he left his house to go to the air terminal.

He didn't know what to expect as he hugged his sobbing sisters goodbye.

He had no idea what to plan for as he boarded the plane.

By the time his plane landed, he had no clue as to where to go.

All he knew was an overwhelming sense of relief as the final man in the immigration office stamped his papers, welcomed him to the United States, and handed him a flag to wave at himself as he stood on the California coast and waved Russia goodbye one last time.

/

Two years later, the joy had worn off. Ivan still didn't know what was wrong.

He had fled Russia, leaving behind his family, and the homophobic people he had once proudly called his countrymen. At the time, he had thought that might have been the problem.

He was no longer stared at, no longer hated just for being himself. There were no more threats of 'war' over the issue that were more serious than the media could ever even hope to grasp fully.

He was no longer ashamed to walk with his head held high.

However, despite this, he still felt a gut wrenching _wrongness_ about it all that he couldn't place, couldn't name. Couldn't hope to understand on his own.

Finally, a flamboyant Polish man at the theatre he made props for, gave him an understanding look that told Ivan both more and less than he ever could have dreamed, even in the land of them, and handed him a simple business card.

Ivan had a therapy appointment for the next week by the end of the day.

/

It took another year for Ivan to fully understand what the off feeling in his chest was. And the knowledge was as freeing as it was terrifying.

"Transsexual" is what his therapist, a polite Lithuanian man named Toris, called it. The name meant nothing more to Ivan than a mere thing to call the murmuring in the back of his head that something wasn't right as it was.

But it explained things.

Why he smiled a little more when he observed the women getting into their beautiful gowns for whatever romantic play they were performing that month.

Why his eye caught just a little too long on the makeup table as he walked past.

Why he found himself adopting mannerisms he never had before when talking to the men and women in the acting group that would previously had had him hiding in his Russian house in shame and fear.

When he told Feliks, the Polish man who had first recommended Toris to him, and Elizaveta, a Hungarian woman that was to be respectfully feared, the two people Ivan had come to think of as his closest and even best friends, he couldn't meet their eyes. Refused to look up from the floor boards.

Was scared senseless of what they might think.

But with large grins that nearly ate their faces, they hugged him so hard he fell to the ground, laughing all the while at his stunned expression. Then they told him it didn't matter, that they loved him all the same, and that his already thick accent got worse when he was embarrassed all in the same sentence.

Later that day, as the three friends, and the rest of the theatre troupe who had reacted much the same as Feliks and Elizaveta to the news that the Europeans shared before Ivan could tell them not to, went drinking to celebrate his newfound discovery in life, they told him that they had never seen the tall Russian smile more in the entire three years they had known him.

Ivan smiled even more.

/

Not even a month later, Ivan was exploring this new side of himself.

Toris, who was still his therapist even after all this time, told him to take it slow, and not to rush into anything, not to spook himself, not to panic at small things.

Ivan did as he was told, trying small things first. He had enlisted the help of his two best friends, who were more than happy to help, and were even more pleased by their new titles.

Elizaveta taught him how to do make up, how to pluck his eyebrows, how to shave his legs.

Feliks taught him how to act like a woman instead of as flamboyantly out there as he himself was.

They brought him to a mutual friend, a French man with blonde hair and a predisposition for touching everything and everyone to help him with his new clothes. All tasteful, not overly womanly nor masculine, but a happy blend that fell more towards the female side of things.

The best surprise was finding all his friends at the theatre had pitched in to pay for his wardrobe.

He bought them all drinks that night as he proudly wore his new pant suit and flats.

/

It took six more months before Ivan was ready to change more.

He had been wearing the female-esque clothing on and off, but with increasing regularity before he wore nothing else.

Toris told him it was good progress. To not go further than he was comfortable with. That he had an excellent support structure. That if Ivan wanted he should bring his friends with him to the next session.

Ivan was becoming steadily but surely more sure in himself and in his choices.

But things still held him back. Was he a good enough actor to fool people like this? Would people hate him for this? Did he care?

He had decided that he didn't before telling Feliks and Elizaveta that he wanted to go further.

That he didn't think his tall and broad frame would work towards being the woman he felt he was finally getting closer to becoming.

Feliks told him to stop lifting weights so much and the bulk would go down and to just focus on toning himself if he was still going to 'live at the gym'.

Elizaveta told him that there were plenty of tall women and that at 5'10" he would just be one of them, and if he was so concerned to not wear heels. She whacked him playfully and told him guys found tall women sexily intimidating anyway and to use that to his advantage.

Francis, the French clothing designer, told him to try swimming when he dropped by the playhouse when the topic was on discussion.

/

Another six months later, Ivan finally felt he had slimmed enough. He felt happy. He felt good. He felt daring.

He felt liberated in a way he hadn't since he got his citizenship and waved Russia goodbye.

The next month blew Ivan back farther than anyone thought possible.

His sisters had called for his birthday. And he had gotten a boyfriend. He told them all his plans with the biggest smile on his face while holding up the tasteful evening gown Francis had designed just for that day.

By the next hour he was curled up on Elizaveta's couch in tears.

His sisters didn't understand. They couldn't understand. They _wouldn't._ And then they told him they didn't want to talk to him anymore until the phase had passed. They told him they didn't want to talk to him ever again when he told them it wasn't one.

The dial tone after that final statement was enough for him to drop to the ground in tears.

His boyfriend's awkward confession that he wouldn't have gotten involved with him in the first place if this was his plan made it worse. The stuttered 'happy birthday' followed by 'goodbye' as he left Ivan on the living room floor alone, gown at his side, was heart wrenching. Tearing. Breaking.

Ivan didn't know what to do.

Didn't know what to say.

Didn't remember how to move off the floor until his neighbors called the manager, who in turn called his emergency contact.

The Hungarian ball of righteous fury at anyone who dared tell her friend he wasn't good enough was what they wrote about in the bibles of old.

That night, four foreigners got wasted on cheap Russian vodka in the middle of Elizaveta's studio apartment floor, and threw birthday cake at the Russian embassy and Ivan's new ex's condo door.

/

It took another four months of added therapy and continued reassurances until Ivan was anywhere near where he was on his birthday.

It took another three until he was.

That evening, Ivan, Elizaveta, Feliks, Francis, and Toris dressed in their very best; Ivan finally wore his gown.

And they did it all.

Ate at a fancy restaurant.

Saw a nice play.

Went bowling.

Listened to a violinist playing at the subway for an hour.

Watched Elizaveta give him her number.

Went through a McDonald's drive through.

Ate ice cream with the guy at the window.

Got yelled at by the manager.

Went to a gay bar.

Got thrown out of a gay bar.

Shouted abuse at the bouncer.

Bought the bouncer a drink from the bar across the street.

Went to the Pier.

Rode the Ferris Wheel until they were politely asked to leave.

Politely declined.

Ate cotton candy.

Walked on the beach.

Watched Feliks hit on Toris.

Badly.

Watched it work anyway.

Swam in the ocean fully dressed.

Got yelled at by the angry British cab driver when trying to get into his car soaking wet.

Rode in the trunk with it open and laughed to the sky.

Laughed at people.

Were laughed at.

Laughed together with the people in traffic.

Invited the cab driver to the next gay bar.

Went drinking with the cab driver.

Went to more gay bars.

Went to a straight bar.

Watched Elizaveta start a fight with someone who insulted Ivan.

Watched her win.

Watched the bouncer and the bartender join the fight.

On her side.

Rented a four star hotel room.

Watched B-rated movies until the morning.

Woke up wanting to die.

But it was by far the best birthday, belated or not, that Ivan had ever had as he woke up with his best friends, and the new ones they had made along the way.

/

Another two and a half months went by.

Toris told Ivan about surgery options.

The rest of the month went by before he had an answer. Had a plan. Had a goal.

He said yes.

/

Less than two weeks later, Ivan had his first meeting with a plastic surgeon, an intimidating German man, who told him on no uncertain terms that this was a onetime procedure. That there was no going back. That he had to be sure.

That it wasn't cheap.

Ivan told him on no uncertain terms he'd be back.

That day he bought a pair of heels and got another job.

In another month he made another appointment with the German doctor.

He wore his heels.

The doctor was much the same. No nonsense. No half hearted gestures.

Ivan was told there was a few more counseling sessions with the clinic's own therapist before they could begin hormone treatments.

Ivan agreed.

The next day, he met with the psychiatrist at the clinic, a Chinese man with a collection of odd Hello Kitty plushes. He was told off for saying the observation aloud. Recommended Toris as a good therapist should the Chinese man think he needed help.

Got told off again.

After four more meetings, he was sent back to the German man.

He was sent home with a bottle of pills and firm instructions.

Ivan followed them.

/

In another four months, Ivan was deemed ready for the first procedure.

Elizaveta and Feliks held his hands in the waiting room.

He gripped back harder than he should have.

They were there when they explained the surgery. That this was the major one. That he would be missing something this time instead of gaining something.

He told them to hurry up and get started.

He still clung to his friend's hands as they started attaching him to their machines. He had to be reminded to let go as they wheeled him down the hall.

The last thing he remembered was the lights on the ceiling as the switch that was his consciousness flicked off.

When it came on again, the first thing he saw was Elizaveta and Feliks. Followed by Toris, Francis and Arthur, the cab driver and Francis's lover. Then he saw the rest of the theatre troupe, all managing to cram into the little recovery room.

In his drugged state he had to be reminded several times to speak English and that they couldn't understand Russian before the German doctor yelled at them all to get out.

They did so with large smiles, well wishes, and promises to return.

They did an hour later.

Ivan couldn't stop crying and blamed it on his new attachments.

No one believed him, but told him they did anyway.

The next time he went in, they added something.

/

Then they started tidying up. Face. Legs. Stomach. Arms. Throat. Voice.

And like that he was done.

For his twenty sixth birthday, two days after his final surgery, his friends gave him a form to fill out.

He couldn't stop crying as he re-named himself Anya.

She couldn't stop crying as everyone she had become friends with called her a pretty lady and escorted her by elbow everywhere she went for three days straight.

The first time she got asked out by a man, it was the middle of the day. She had gone to lunch with Elizaveta and Feliks at an outdoor café when a man in glasses with sunshine bright hair and sky blue eyes asked if he could live in her socks so he could be with her every step of the way.

She burst into tears.

He panicked.

Then she told him he'd missed the best part of the journey through her sobs.

He told her he couldn't understand her accent but that it was cute.

She cried harder.

He panicked more.

When her friends came back with the trays, they found her sobbing with a hyperactive American man trying to get her to stop by telling awful jokes that weren't working with his arms around her letting her soak his leather jacket.

By the time Anya had calmed down, they had learned the man's life story. He obviously liked to babble. Anya didn't mind as much as she thought she would towards anyone else.

Two hours later, they had to part ways.

He gave her a napkin with a name and number scrawled on it.

She almost cried again.

He nearly freaked out. Again.

Elizaveta and Feliks couldn't stop laughing.

/

A year and a half later, Elizaveta, Feliks, Francis, Toris, Arthur, two bouncers, a bartender, an entire theatre troupe, a Chinese psychiatrist, a German doctor's entire medical team, and one slightly confused man from immigrations were formally invited to the union of Anya Braginski and Alfred F. Jones.

Everyone RSVPed.

Everyone came.

Anya cried again.

And Alfred understood why.

And she had never been happier to not know what to hope for as she walked up the aisle.

More delighted to not know what to expect as she stood next to Alfred in front of the priest.

More glad to not have a plan as she was pulled down into a movie-moment kiss by her shorter husband.

When the cake was wheeled out, she still had no clue what was going to happen, and that was okay.

And as she stood with her husband, surrounded by the friends that had become her family on a beach in California, wearing a dress made just for her, eating a cake with an American flag drawn on it in frosting, she had realized she had only felt this kind of overwhelming relief once before. So she looked out at the beautiful, blue Pacific, envisioned what lay across it and calmly flipped it off before taking off her heels and rejoining her guests.

Because the future is unknown.

And that's okay.

Because life is good.

Life is good.

_**~END~**_


End file.
